


Midnight-Blooming Flower

by AriadneKurosaki



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Discussion of attempted non-con, F/M, Heian Period, I went down 50 different rabbit holes and this happened, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Inaccurate hygiene practices, Sort Of, This is a love story, Waka Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 22:34:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29973285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriadneKurosaki/pseuds/AriadneKurosaki
Summary: Rukia's wedding day has come, and the silk layers that cover her are as heavy as her heart. Before her wedding, though, there was this: a chance meeting in the smallest courtyard of the Kuchiki estate, and a man with amber eyes who seeks her out, again and again, with poetry on his lips even as he teases her for her sharpness.
Relationships: Kuchiki Rukia/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 26
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This particular AU started with a pretty piece of fanart on Pixiv that had nothing to do with the Heian period, but suddenly I had 50 research tabs open and a Jstor account. I drew on several resources to construct this story but I'm sure I've made any number of mistakes and have made some deliberate deviations as well. Sources will be listed as a note at the end of this fic.
> 
> This story contains a number of poems from the Heian period; these poems have a footnote and a link to the poem in both Japanese and English. Some poems are written by me; these align to the 5-7-5-7-7 format in English.
> 
> Content note: This story contains period-typical discussion of and references to attempted rape. These discussions are not graphic.

Her bridal clothes are _so_ heavy. She’s a small woman to begin with, and the silken layers around her make her feel like she’s drowning. But it’s nothing compared to the way her heart stutters in her chest and sweat prickles at her back beneath the silks. Nothing compared to the way it takes every inch of discipline she has, hard-taught and hard-won from hours of learning how to be a proper noblewoman, to keep from bolting.

Today is her wedding day.

And Kuchiki Rukia, adopted daughter of the Kuchiki clan, has never met her groom. He’s a son of the Shiba clan, she’s been told. _Better than you deserve_ , are the whispers she hears. It’s an alliance that will bring still more power to the Kuchiki family.

She catches a glimpse of herself in a small, silvery mirror: her skin is washed of all color. Nine layers of silk, each more elaborate than the last, drape over her until she can barely move. The ensemble is _heavy,_ too. She swears it weighs half as much as she does.

The maids woke her early in the morning to dress her, helping her into a kosode of white silk that hangs to her ankles and then bright red nagabakama. A scarlet-hued hitoe follows, plain except for delicate gold embroidery at the sleeves, and then five more silk robes, each purest white, that drape over her and create a layered effect. The pattern is the _reverse chrysanthemum_ and Rukia supposes that someone has decided it is the right choice for this day. Not that anyone but her new husband – her stomach twists at the thought – will see anything but the layers of fabric displayed at her sleeves.

A wide belt, bright red and shot through with gold thread, wraps around her waist and ties the heavy robes against her body. The outermost layer is a brocade silk karaginu, too long for her and its white silk contrasted with bright red roundels. A trapezoidal white mo, adding even more weight, spills down the back of her robes.

One of the maids clears her throat. “Allow me to arrange your hair, my lady Rukia,” she offers.

“And perhaps some color for her lips,” another suggests.

Rukia sits in silence as her hair is brushed until it shines, long and flowing down her back and legs like a river at night, then gathered and fastened with a single jeweled clasp. The same maid powders her skin and draws on the thin, fashionable eyebrows, then paints her lips bright red, a slash the color of blood on her white skin.

Finally, a fan is placed in her hand and the maids escort her from her room.

The wedding ceremony itself is to take place in the southern courtyard of her family’s estate, and Rukia anticipates a crowd but she is startled despite herself as the maids push the doors open. The courtyard is filled with men and women in clothing so colorful it nearly makes her eyes water. Her heart twists; Ichigo is nowhere to be found, his bright hair missing from the assembled wedding guests. But then, she wouldn’t want him here, watching her marry a man she doesn’t know or love.

After today she will need to put her lover from her mind and think instead of her husband. There are plenty of women in the court who carry on affairs, but she doubts Ichigo will want her after this. She wishes, though, that she could have said goodbye.

There is no procession waiting for Rukia, but as she enters the room all eyes are on her. A path is made for her and she walks, alone, toward the altar that has been set up at the front of the room. A priest waits, solemn in his garb, at the center of the courtyard.

The walk to the altar is slow, Rukia doing her best not to struggle under the weight of her silken finery. There is a rumor that the court will soon hand down new laws to end this excess, and she wishes fervently that the rumor is true. She raises her fan modestly to her face as she walks, the train of her mo following behind her. She wonders who her future husband is, this son of the Shiba family, and whether he has other wives already; she wonders whether he will remain here with her for a time or consummate the marriage and leave once more for his own home.

She reaches the altar and stands before the priest. A man steps up, young and dark-haired. He is in formal clothing as well, but they are much simpler and not nearly as fine as Rukia’s. He bows to Rukia nervously, and she takes a slow breath. _This is the man I am being sold to?_ she wants to ask, but women are not supposed to speak in public. Her fan flutters, uncertainly, until the priest steps forward.

“My lady Kuchiki, your bridegroom has been called away on an urgent and unavoidable matter. As he is the only son of his family, his retainer will serve as his representative,” the old man explains.

Her stomach lurches: even now she is not allowed to know who her husband is? Rukia hides a panicked swallow behind her fan, along with a deep breath. The elders of her family stare at her from the front of the room, faces knowing. One of them is smirking. She lowers her fan and manages a regal nod.

The ceremony, such as it is, passes in a short blur. It’s so short, in fact, that she wonders why the elders bothered to demand a ceremony at all – particularly given that her new husband isn’t even _here_ for it. But it would be an embarrassment, she supposes, if they canceled the ceremony altogether.

Just as quickly as it began, the ceremony is over. Rukia is escorted to her rooms once more to change for the banquet that will follow; the mo, karaginu, and two of the layered robes are whisked away. A different karaginu – scarlet-hued but plain – is pulled over her arms. She feels like a dress-up doll as she is escorted behind a number of kichō, tall, portable screens of silk fabric, in her family’s home. Here there are only women, each in their celebration finery. The men have their own celebration, one that would normally involve her groom.

Except – 

He is not here, and his retainer has likely been dismissed now that his job is done. She squares her shoulders and ignores the whispers as she settles upon dull gray cushions before a low, lacquered table filled to the edges with dishes. The other women have already been seated at their own tables. Her arrival is apparently the signal for the banquet to begin, and around her women pick up their chopsticks. There is chattering, one woman exchanging gossip with another about the Minamoto clan while two others giggle over the Torikaebaya Monogatari.

Rukia is familiar with the story, and she does her best to listen without appearing to do so as she picks up her chopsticks. The meal before her is sumptuous, but today the scents turn her stomach: there are plates of raw trout, pickled in a sharp vinegar sauce, and grilled pheasant, as well as small bowls filled with vegetables from farms north of Heian-kyo. Tiny dishes filled with salt, vinegar, and hishio are lined up along the edge of the table, ready to season her meal.

“What are your thoughts, Lady Shiba?” one of the women asks. Rukia looks up from her untouched food. Ah, it’s the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower, perfectly correct in her robes in a pattern of deep green and fading red layers. There is an emphasis on the word _Shiba_ that Rukia does not particularly care for from this woman. It sounds smug somehow. “I think it’s so romantic that Saishō simply can’t control himself and _must_ have the Chūnagon when he discovers her secret!”

Rukia thinks of the men she has dissuaded with the point of a tachi or a well-placed fan to the gut. She thinks also of the one man whose advances she didn’t spurn, whose lips touched hers and asked rather than demanded. “How unfortunate for the Chūnagon that her friend’s perception of her changed so much when her secret was discovered,” she muses, “it put into jeopardy her later relationship with the Emperor.”

“I rather think Lady Shiba identifies with the Chūnagon,” another woman – a distant, adoptive relation of the Kuchiki clan known as the Lady of the Autumn Blossoms – titters. “She is most adept with a closed fan.”

Ah, so even on her wedding day she is the butt of a joke. Rukia raises her chin slightly and picks up her chopsticks and the small bowl of rice on her table. She can stomach that, at least.

“Oh!” the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower says, cheeks flushing a pretty pink hue. “Perhaps,” she agrees. “Perhaps you prefer the Chūnagon’s time with the Lady of the Reikeiden?” she offers.

“I prefer The Tales of Ise,” she says mildly. “But please, do not let my opinions keep you from your meals.”

The buxom woman’s eyes are wide and innocent as she picks up her own chopsticks. “Oh, I did not realize you were so famished, Lady Shiba! Forgive us.”

“There is nothing to forgive, of course,” Rukia murmurs in return.

A few minutes later, the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower flushes and titters in response to a remark made by her dining companion. “Oh! The Emperor would be too kind, to look in my direction, but it is Kurosaki Ichigo who has caught my eye. I glimpsed him from around my screens in the palace. He is such a _handsome_ man.”

Rukia’s chopsticks creak in her hand and she forcibly loosens her grip. It is far too late for her to worry about Ichigo, but in her mind’s eye she sees that first moment once more, under the sun.

_One Year Ago_

It’s by chance that they meet the way they do. After all, women stay behind kichō in private and fans or even veils on the few occasions they are seen in public. Rukia’s sword practice is supposed to be completely private so as not to shame the larger Kuchiki clan, although her brother is aware of his adopted sister’s hobby and has tacitly encouraged it. Here in the littlest courtyard of the estate she uses her tachi, its hilt wrapped in white and its blade gleaming, in the series of exercises her brother has taught her. He believes, she thinks, that such movement will calm her mind.

Out of the cumbersome robes she normally wears, Rukia feels practically free in just hakama and a simple, narrow-sleeved kosode. There is no one else here; her teacher – one Shihouin Yoruichi – has long since judged her competent enough not to cut herself on her own blade if left alone with it. Her long hair is bound, gathered into a bun at the back of her head that has been tamed with no less than a dozen pins.

She hears movement to her left, and when her eyes open there is someone there: a man, tall and slender in his patterned dark blue kariginu. One of the higher-ranked men, then, she thinks. His hair is lighter than any she’s ever seen. It reminds her of the last rays of sunset on a clear night, golden and soft orange. She wonders how he could possibly have hair that bright. But more importantly, she wonders why he is here, in her private space.

“You’re a woman,” he says bluntly, and looks her over with more interest. His eyes are a lovely dark amber, but his brow is furrowed, and his face is set in a scowl. Screenless, fan-less, all Rukia can do is raise her arm to hide her face modestly. “You carry a blade well. Whose sword are you using?”

She glances down at the long blade in her hand and then at him, arm lowering as she meets his eyes for the first time. She watches as he sucks in a breath; ah, she thinks. She is known for her eyes, deep sapphire and violet in the right light. It is an anomaly that draws far too much attention to her. “It is my blade,” she says.

“You?” She expects the tone of disbelief in his voice and has long since inured herself to it; her clan calls her **unnatural** , after all. “You’re so tiny, you can’t be more than fourteen.”

Being called a child, however, is a new one. “I am twenty,” she says, and raises her chin. “And this is my courtyard.”

“Hn.” He smirks at her, eyes raking over her informal attire. Rukia resists the urge to cover her face with her sleeve. “And your husband does not mind that you fight?”

Her blade rises slightly. “I have no husband.” Her lord brother has declined to offer her up as a prize, and she – well. Rukia’s blade glints in the sun. She will not tolerate the ‘games’ that some men play to secure a wife or bedmate.

His expression changes, then, and looks more considering. “The Kuchiki clan permits an unmarried woman to dance about with a sword?”

“Do you often demand to know what another clan permits its daughters?” But the look on his face is worrisome.

He steps closer to her, one hand on the hilt of his tachi, and looks down at her. “No. But I’ve never seen a clan allow a woman her own blade.”

The words sting more than he knows, and Rukia controls her flinch. She is adopted, after all, and some do not consider her properly part of the clan. Especially not after her beloved sister’s death. “Do you have a purpose in harassing me in my courtyard?” she demands.

The man with the sunset hair smirks. “Spar with me, little moon blossom,” he says in return.

“Little what?” Rukia asks, startled by the sudden nickname. Her cheeks heat and she covers her face reflexively with her arm; it only makes his lips curve.

“Spar with me,” he says again, and this time there is a smile on his lips. But a voice calls for him, and he heaves out a low sigh. “Another time, perhaps,” the man tells her, and just as quickly as he appeared, he leaves.

She does not see him again for some time and thinks it’s a fluke or even that she imagined him – his hair, after all, is not exactly normal for a nobleman in Heian-kyō. But then there is a gathering, and Rukia’s robes are too long for her. They always are, because she’s meant to look graceful but she’s so petite that they drag on the floor far more than they are meant to. She, adopted as she is, still hasn’t forgotten the freedom of wearing only mobakama and a kosode instead of so very many layers.

She trips, and as the women of her adopted household laugh at her clumsiness a huge pair of hands, callused but gentle, suddenly catch her. Nervous giggles fill the air as Rukia raises her head to see her ‘rescuer’ – and then raises it higher, because he is head and shoulders taller than her. It’s him, the one who called her little moon blossom and demanded that she spar with him. Her cheeks flush, suddenly, and she is grateful for the white powder that covers her face.

“Are you unharmed, my lady?”

His deep amber eyes have little gold flecks in them, she notices. Though the space between his brows is furrowed, face set in a frown that’s nearly a scowl, there’s still something gentle about him as he helps her regain her footing amidst her many layers of fabric. He retrieves her fan for her next, offering it as she stares at him.

“My lady?”

“Ah! Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she says, and their fingertips touch as she takes the fan from him. The scowl on his face softens.

“Kurosaki Ichigo, at your service, my lady,” he says as the women around them giggle.

She hides her face behind her fan as she hurries away, cheeks still hot and robes dragging on the floor ungracefully.

This is the way of things, in Heian-kyō: at night, a man might decide he wants a woman – a specific woman, perhaps, but sometimes any woman will do – and will go to her sleeping futon to have her. Sometimes it is by arrangement and she offers a token, expected protest; other times it is not, and her protests are real – and frequently ignored. After all, women are irresistible, and men cannot control themselves. Sometimes, a man selects the wrong woman and finds himself on the wrong end of a fan “clumsily” shoved in his most delicate parts.

Rukia is aware of at least one woman who, in dissuading a particularly determined would-be suitor, shoved a tanto in his throat. She finds herself a little too understanding of that course of action, even if the woman in question turned the tanto on herself, next.

In any case, there is a reason that Rukia keeps her tachi close at hand. Eldest unmarried daughter of the clan though she is, there has been more than one man who thought she was fair game. It is unfashionable of her, and more than one woman in the clan compound has derided her for guarding herself so zealously, but she persists. Then again, they deride her as well for refusing to blacken her teeth, no matter how fashionable it is, so Rukia has little patience for what her clan considers appropriate.

The night after Kurosaki Ichigo introduces himself, Rukia is already lying upon her futon as the door to her room slides open. Her tachi is by her side, but when a weight settles next to her, a large hand grips her wrist before she can reach for it.

“Have I longed to no purpose, today, lost in thoughts of you?”1 his voice asks. His grasp gentles almost immediately, keeping her still without causing her pain.

“Don’t,” she whispers, struggling against his grip, but instead of falling upon her, his hand slides lower and he twines their fingers together.

“Not tonight,” he agrees. “That is not my purpose.” In the dim moonlight she can see his hair, sunset-golden and bare of the tall hats most men wear during the day.

_Kurosaki Ichigo,_ she thinks: the man who wanted to spar with her, who caught her when she nearly tripped. Still, he is trespassing. “Not any night,” Rukia protests, voice kept low to avoid attracting attention. Even here in the Kuchiki estate, the walls are thin. His fingers squeeze hers lightly and he draws her hand to his mouth.

“I would not swear to that, my lady, if I were you,” he says quietly, and in the dim moonlight streaming in from a far window his gaze is dark on hers. “But tonight, I only wish to look at you without the layers of powder, silk, and brocade.”

Her cheeks burn and she is glad of the darkness, hoping it hides much of her blush from view. “Why would you want that?” she asks quietly. He is handsome, she is willing to admit, his voice pleasing to her ears, and the weight of his hand on hers is no trial. In fact, he is a little _too_ handsome, with strong cheekbones and a stronger jaw. His eyes are bigger than is fashionable, but she likes them. She remembers them in daylight, amber-hued and with a hint of humor in them.

He chuckles, loud in the silence of her room, and shifts closer. He is so much larger than her, chest broad and covered only by a kosode and dōbuku. “Little moon flower, a pretty bud in the day, but I, in the night, would see you blossom for me.”

His poem, missing a line, not at all subtle, and far too forward, makes her blush again all the same. “Better to say that you wander much at night, my lord,” she says.

Ichigo’s hand tightens suddenly on hers until her breath catches in discomfort and he gentles his grip. “I am not given to wandering at night,” he corrects. “And you are known for your sharpness.”

“And why shouldn’t I be sharp, when a man thinks he can push aside my screens and have what he wants of me?” Rukia demands in return.

There is another soft chuckle. “Why shouldn’t you?” he agrees. “But is sharpness all you have, moon blossom? I heard your fingers have more than one talent.”

“My fingers,” she says flatly.

His lips find the tips of them and press, lightly, hand still joined with hers. It’s shockingly forward, even more than his poem. But he says lightly, “I am told that you play the yamatogoto.”

The mention of the stringed instrument startles her, and she looks at him more closely. “You seem to know more of me than I know of you,” Rukia points out.

“Play for me,” he says, “and I will tell you what you want to know, my lady moon flower.” His hand leaves hers, and she feels somehow colder for its loss.

“Now?” she asks.

“It isn’t so late.”

Her relief that she doesn’t have to chase him off at sword point outweighs her irritation at having her rest disturbed. So, she throws back her blankets and rises, wearing only her kosode, to retrieve the instrument as her visitor finds and lights her lantern. In the lanternlight he is even more handsome, the flame casting a golden glow on his face and hair. When she settles upon the futon once more with the yamatogoto on her lap, he settles a blanket from her bed over her shoulders solicitously to ward off the cold and then drapes himself nearby, having stolen the other blanket to serve as a cushion.

Rukia knows any number of songs by heart now, and she takes only a moment to tune the seven-stringed zither before her fingertips begin to pluck at the strings. It is a haunting melody she weaves, one that Ichigo listens to intently, eyes occasionally shifting from the instrument in her hands to watch her eyes.

She plays for nearly an hour as he watches her, an enigmatic smile drifting over his lips. He doesn’t touch her, but this feels more intimate than if he did, somehow: he is only arm’s length away from her, eyes dark in the lanternlight that gleams golden over the length of his body. Without _his_ trappings, the billowing hunting coat and other layers, it’s clear that he is broad but slender, kosode and dōbuku draping against long legs and arms forming a pillow for his head. He is far too handsome, she decides.

When her fingers begin to grow tired, he reaches out and gently stills her hand at the end of a song as if he knows it’s beginning to ache even before she does. “I have been part of the Emperor’s military for three years,” he says quietly.

Her eyes watch his. “It’s peacetime,” Rukia murmurs. But he bears the look of someone who has fought in battles, not the softness of a military rank bestowed and not earned.

“There are rebellions. Clans that want more land, men who think they should be Emperor. The Fujiwara and the Taira fight over the same piece of land over and over.” Ichigo plucks lightly at one of the strings of her zither and laughs softly when she bats his hand away. “Possessive of your instrument, Rukia?”

She won’t admit that she likes the way he says her name, here in the lanternlight. “It is a work of art, and I don’t want you to break a string,” she snaps instead.

He just grins. “So sharp,” he tells her, a soft note of teasing in his voice. “You would like my sister, Karin; she learned to play the biwa and threatens me every time I go near it. I think she’d learn to use a sword if my father let her.”

“You have a sister?” Rukia asks, curious despite herself.

“Aa. I have twin sisters, both sixteen. Karin and her husband live in my family’s home. Yuzu loves to cook, and she sneaks into the kitchen whenever she can.” He hums under his breath thoughtfully and traces a line along the wooden floor. “She also told my father she’d rather not get married.”

“And what did your father say about that?” Rukia tucks the blanket on her shoulders more closely around her; it’s getting colder and her kosode is quite thin.

“He thinks she’ll change her mind eventually, but he decided to focus his efforts on me instead.”

Something thumps uncomfortably in her chest. “You’re married?” she asks, and a finger presses on the string below it so that the zither gives an unpleasant twang.

Ichigo’s eyes are intent as he looks at her, and he murmurs, “No. He is giving me some time to find my own bride.” He catches her shivering again and sits up. “I’ve let you get cold,” he says, admonishing himself. Ichigo takes the zither from her lap and sets it aside, blowing out the lamp to leave them in darkness once more. “Lie down.”

She does, and he drapes her blanket back over her. Then, though she gives a token protest, he lies down beside her on the futon and slips beneath the blanket as well. “I thought you said—”

“I did. But your reputation and mine will be better if I leave at dawn,” Ichigo tells her, lips curved in a smirk that she can barely see as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. There’s a soft dragging sound behind him and his hand comes up, a shadow that pulls her other blanket closer.

“And if other men think my blade has dulled enough to accost me behind my screens?” she asks even as she hides a yawn behind her blanket.

“Shove your fan in their soft parts and show them that they are mistaken,” he murmurs, and settles the second blanket over them both. When she stiffens, he huffs out a breath. “Sleep, Rukia.”

Her name, murmured from his lips, sends a shiver down her spine. “How do you know my name?” she demands, even as the warmth of him close to her but not quite touching lulls her towards sleep.

His hand brushes her cheek lightly. “There’s only one woman in Heian-kyō with eyes your color. Go to sleep. If anyone asks me about the state of your blade, I will show them the sharpness of _mine_.”

Her eyes fly to his, but Ichigo just draws her in a little closer and closes his eyes. With his warmth beside her, strangely intimate and yet not, she sleeps deeply and awakens only when it shifts away from her at dawn. His expression is soft and lit by the first rays of sunlight as he settles the blankets back around her. He whispers something but still half-asleep, she doesn’t catch it, only feels the light press of his lips at the corner of her mouth.

Later that day there is a message for her, though strictly speaking it isn’t necessary. Still, his careful writing praises her skill with the zither and in poetry tells her that he hopes she will permit him to visit again and that she will “stay her blade for him.”

Rukia considers carefully her response to this man whose behavior is so forward yet so restrained. In the end she writes five lines:

_This blade may lower -  
You push aside my kich_ _ō,  
And demand a song  
Yet my sleeves are damp at the  
Thought you wouldn’t come to me_

There are letters, at first, though Ichigo does not come to her again. They bear his mark and arrive with lines of careful poetry, words that compare her to the loveliest of flowers and tell her that he would never want her sleeves to be damp on his account. She responds, hiding her blushes behind powder and her fan, oh-so-carefully teasing him for his interest in her sleeves, and wondering if he thinks her so weak.

In response, he tells her of his own weakness, sharing a poem that she knows well:

_These are not my words, my moon blossom, but they struck me deeply when I read them:_

_Aching with love  
In the depths of sleep  
I tread to you  
A straight dream road  
If only it were real…_ [2] 

She writes back, cheeks hot with the implications of his words:

_If you seek a road  
That leads to me, follow the  
Sound of a zither,  
Its gently plucked tune shall guide  
You to a lantern-lit home_

His letters stop.

Suddenly, almost three months have passed, and Rukia wonders if he has moved on to an easier, softer bed partner, though her last poem was terribly forward. But when the moon is shining nearly full in the night sky her door slides open once more and then shut, and his footfalls are soft as he rounds the corner of her kichō.

By now she has stopped expecting him, but before she can even reach for her tachi he murmurs into the moonlit room, “I thought you might lower your blade for me,” and Rukia does not protest when he settles next to her on her futon.

“It depends upon how far you have wandered,” she says in return. The growl beneath his breath startles her, his face suddenly only a breath from hers with amber eyes gleaming in the silvery light. It is early spring, but still cold, and though he is too close his warmth, like a banked fire, is not unwelcome against her thin silk kosode.

“I did not wander,” he tells her, voice low and gravel-rough between them. “The Emperor required my sword.”

“Fool,” she says into the darkness to cover the confusing feeling of relief that wells up in her chest. “You might have sent a letter to tell me.”

Her words give too much away: Ichigo’s lips curve, and his hand comes up to cup her cheek. “Did you miss me, my little moon blossom?” he asks, and chuckles low in his throat when her cheek heats against his hand.

“I’m not yours,” she objects, but there is only a little heat in her voice.

He chuckles again. “Not yet,” he agrees. Then: “Will you play your zither for me again tonight? You promised it would lead me home.”

“I am not here for your entertainment, either,” Rukia snaps, but again her cheeks betray her.

His fingers stroke along her skin and then through her hair, lingering in the heavy length of it. “No, you aren’t,” he agrees, and settles closer to her. When she stiffens, he tsks softly and presses a light kiss against her cheek, one arm sliding around her shoulders to tuck her close.

“Why do you call me moon blossom?” Rukia asks as his touch mollifies her.

Ichigo hums softly under his breath. “You remind me of the Princess Kagura, from the old story. Pale as the moon and just as beautiful.” When she splutters, he smiles, visible in the light streaming in from the sliver of window overhead. “And in the day, you are beautiful in your silks, but at night like this you are…” He leans in closer and touches his lips to hers, feather light. “A midnight-blooming flower.”

“Pretty words,” she says softly, though his poetry is not the cleverest she has heard. It lacks the finesse of the great court poets, whose minds create elegant phrases in only a few syllables. Still, _midnight-blooming flower_ is a pretty enough turn of phrase. “But my blade is still sharp if you go too far.”

Instead of growing offended he chuckles softly and touches his forehead to hers. “I would have a thousand nights rather than one, my lady moon blossom. Stop my hand with yours when you have had enough; you won’t ever have to point your blade at me.”

“Is that so?” There’s a funny feeling low in her stomach, fluttering and spreading through her. He is _so_ close to her, now, smelling of tea and something sharper, cleaner; he must have bathed recently. “But you barely know me.” Letters, after all, are not the same as speaking.

“I know enough to want to know more,” Ichigo says, a thoughtful hum in his voice. “Would you turn me away?”

Her cheeks turn pink and the fluttering is stronger, spreading up to her heart and setting it to beating faster. Somehow, even though he has seen her with a blade in hand and has even called her _sharp_ himself, Ichigo is _interested_ in her, not appalled or repulsed. “You want to know more about someone who is called _manly_ by her own clan?” she blurts out.

He unsuccessfully tries to stifle a rude noise. “What about you is _manly?_ ” he asks incredulously, voice too loud. She shushes him but squirms uncomfortably beneath her blankets.

“There’s my sword,” Rukia lists, “and my unwillingness to blacken my teeth, and the way I chase men off. And my eyes are too large.”

Ichigo’s chuckle is low in his throat. “None of those things bother me, and they don’t make you manly.”

“There is my figure,” she adds. “I am nearly a board, not so generously shaped as the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower.” That ingenue, Inoue Orihime, is much sought-after at court and rumored to have caught the attentions of the Emperor. Rukia is smaller than the other girl in general, it’s true, but the curves of her breasts are modest.

He sobers in the face of her self-deprecating words and peels back the blankets from her futon to look at her, kosode barely hiding anything. “You are beautifully shaped.” Then he slides in alongside her, ignoring her huff at his forwardness.

“Ichi—” She has to stop, because his lips are on hers, gentle but persuasive as he kisses her. The fluttering in her body has never left but it grows stronger still, captured and captivated by the way his tongue darts along the seam of her lips and then dips inside when she parts them on a gasp for him. _Genji_ tells of dreamlike nights but Rukia is wide awake as her she leans into his touch, coaxed into his arms by callused but gentle hands that rest at her back and hip to keep her close to him.

“Someday you might let me show you just what I mean.” He says the words against her lips as they breathe one another’s air. His fingers wrinkle the fabric at her hip as he squeezes. “But let me kiss you, Rukia, and show you just a little of it.”

She is _supposed_ to struggle, she thinks, that is what is expected of her. That is what men prefer. But when she tries to pull away, he lets go of her immediately and stills his hands.

“I’ve offended you,” he says quietly, brow furrowing. Even in the low light she can see the guilt that fills his eyes as he reaches out to pull the covers back. Her hand at his wrist stops him.

“N-no it’s just…I’m _supposed_ to, aren’t I?” she manages, cheeks hot with embarrassment.

He blinks at her, lashes impossibly long and eyes full of confusion for a moment before they clear. “That’s not – that is _not_ what I want,” he whispers haltingly, a note of hurt in his voice. “I told you, Rukia.”

So her hand, a little hesitant, pulls him close as she murmurs an apology he accepts with a kiss, and when his arms are around her again, she leans up to brush her lips against his jaw. Ichigo hums thoughtfully and peppers kisses over her lips and cheeks, along her slender jawline and down the soft skin of her neck.

The first time she moans for him, low and breathy as his lips drift lower still, his hand clutches at the fabric of her kosode so tightly she’s surprised it doesn’t rip. His lips touch the modest swell of her breast and Rukia shivers under him, fingers finding the opening of his dōbuku and then his kosode as well. His chest is warm under her hand and he hums his approval as she touches him, as she makes room for her hands by spreading the fabric apart. His hand drifts to her thigh a moment later and she’s not fully aware of the noise she makes in her throat, low and nervous, but he is, and his fingers drift up to rest against her waist instead as his mouth finds hers again, soft and sweet.

When the light from the moon has moved some distance upon the floor, they are both tired and yawning, with jaws a little sore besides. Ichigo tucks her close under the blankets and strokes his warm hand along her back until she drifts to sleep, lips swollen and heart fluttering in time with his. He leaves at dawn again, murmuring his admiration for her in one ear as he presses one more kiss to her lips and tucks the blankets around her to keep her warm – though not nearly as warm as he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1From the [Kokinshu, book XI: 476](http://www.wakapoetry.net/kks-xi-476). Written by Ariwara no Narihira. [[return to text](return#1)]
> 
> 2From the [Kokinshu, book XII: 558](http://www.wakapoetry.net/kks-xii-558/). Written by Fujiwara no Toshiyuki.return to text


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wedding day admonishment is followed by an empty bed on her wedding night.

The banquet is interminable, and the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower brings up Ichigo a second and then a third time, extoling his appearance and his military accomplishments. No one here knows, as far as Rukia can tell, that in fact _she_ , not Inoue Orihime, has carried on a (mostly) chaste affair with Ichigo for months. Certainly she can’t _say_ that, now that she is married to someone else.

“His mother died so tragically, an accident when she was making a pilgrimage to the Kasuga Taisha Shrine,” Orihime says toward the end of the banquet, when the servants have poured sake for each guest. “He was just nine years old. I have been told that the military left the road to the shrine nearly impassable after a great battle, and the Lady of the Morning Sun and all of her attendants perished when the path collapsed beneath their feet.”

Rukia’s attendant, a tall woman with a generous bosom and unfashionably large brown eyes gives her a look – part disapproving, part sympathetic – as she clears away plates and bowls still full of food, and the sake she receives a moment later is noticeably watered down. Rukia doesn’t complain. Her stomach is still tied in knots and even if she wanted to, it wouldn’t do to get drunk.

“Oh, how _awful_ ,” another woman says, voice rich with sympathy. “His sisters would have been even younger, of course. My eldest daughter is their age now.” She tuts softly and turns her head away, sending the long length of her silver hair sparkling in the lanternlight.

“As a favor to me on my wedding day,” Rukia begins in a high, clear voice as every eye turns to her. The cup of sake on her lacquered table is still full, only a single sip taken from it. “I would ask that we not use the loss of the Lady of the Morning Sun as _gossip_.” Her voice is sweet, lips still bloodred and curved in a false smile. The powder on her face itches, but she keeps her hands tucked in the enormous sleeves of her robes. “Such a tragedy is, I am sure, a private source of pain for her family.”

Rukia, after all, knows this story. She remembers the look on Ichigo’s face as he told it to her, solemn in the dim light of the moon as he lay on her futon, fingers gently twined in her hair. It is a look similar to the one she must have had, she supposes, when she told him about Hisana, whose wasting illness took six years to kill her.

The Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower is looking at her, plump lips parted and eyes wide and innocent. “Of course, Lady _Shiba_ ,” she says, a reminder of who she is now. “We mustn’t gossip about the pain of others.”

Rukia wishes that the light-haired girl was closer. She’d throw the entire cup of watered-down sake in her face. Instead, she stretches her mouth in another false smile and takes a sip of the drink. She ignores the mutter further away that her teeth, not blackened by dye, resemble peeled caterpillars.

Eventually, the banquet ends, and Rukia walks on the too-long lengths of her red nabakama, layers of silk trailing behind her, to her rooms. Lanterns leave the space brightly lit, and Rukia offers a nod of greeting to the two attendants waiting for her. One is the woman who served her meal. In a reverse of the morning’s work, she permits herself to be divested of layer after layer, until she is wearing only her white kosode once more.

“Allow me to remove your cosmetics,” the second attendant, a tall, tan woman in layered blue kosode offers. Rukia lowers herself onto a cushion and the other woman follows, kneeling beside her and using a wet cloth to wipe away the white powder and false eyebrows, as well as the last of her red lipstick.

The other attendant busies herself rolling out her futon and blankets in the meantime. When they are both done, Rukia’s face is bare, and the bedding is ready for her. “Thank you,” Rukia murmurs politely. “You may douse the lanterns and go.”

A look is exchanged between them. “Should we leave one lantern lit?” the taller one ventures after a moment.

Ah. They think her new husband is going to come visit her. It’s unlikely – if the sovereign called a Shiba away on the day of his marriage to the daughter of a powerful clan, it can’t possibly be for something that would only take a few hours to resolve. That would mean insulting the Kuchiki, and Rukia’s brother is junior third rank – while the head of the Shiba clan, if she remembers correctly, is still of the fourth rank. “No,” she says quietly. “You may douse every lantern.”

“Yes, Lady Shiba.” After a moment she is left alone in darkness.

* * *

The morning after her wedding dawns clear and bright, and Rukia rouses from sleep on her futon, blankets wrapped around her body like a cocoon. She has had nothing like a wedding night: as she predicted, her new husband did not join her. Her eyes are sore to the touch; Rukia pats at them lightly to bring down the puffiness she can feel, the remnants of an hour spent sobbing, stifled by two blankets and her kosode, in the night.

Her husband is a mystery and Ichigo…Ichigo is gone and perhaps seeking the affections of the Lady of the Six-Pointed Flower. Rukia makes a face and pats at her eyes again. Soon a maid will be in to help her dress for the day, and there are enough rumors about the _strange Kuchiki girl_ without the servants adding to them.

The attendant who lets herself into Rukia’s room a moment later looks her over and tsks gently. “Lady Shiba,” she says, and bows shallowly. “Allow me to help you dress.”

At her new family name, Rukia gives a shudder, but she closes her eyes against the hot prickle of tears and rises from her futon. “Thank you,” she murmurs politely. Her attendant is the woman from last night, the one who watered down her sake, and Rukia asks when she has regained control of herself, “Are you new to the estate?”

The maid huffs softly and looks her over. “Yes. I am Unagiya Ikumi,” she says. Then: “I will bring a cold cloth for your eyes.” Her tone is brusque but not cruel. “What color pattern will you wear today, Lady?”

A second maid steps into the room with an enormous pitcher of water and a large clay bowl before Rukia can answer, and Unagiya intercepts the woman, taking them from her hands and shooing her out. Her layered sky blue kosode and long pink apron sway as she hurries to place her burdens on a low table.

“I will wear layered kosode today,” she decides quietly when the other maid is gone. “I will be making perfume this afternoon and do not wish to stain my better robes.” Rukia dispenses with her kosode and accepts a cloth from Unagiya. The water in the pitcher is tepid, and she hurries through her morning ablutions before it gets any cooler while Unagiya leaves and returns with a cloth, chilled from being set outside and soaked in something that smells faintly of . Rukia obediently lies on her futon for a quarter-hour with the cloth draped over her eyes to bring the puffiness down.

When she is done, the dark-haired maid is waiting for her with a fresh kosode. She helps Rukia into a second layer: another kosode, this one such a dark blue that it is nearly black. Then she rolls up the futon and blankets as Rukia pulls on a dark purple kouchiki, smaller than her usual fancy robes, to make herself reasonably presentable. It’s the one she uses whenever she paints: the nearly-black hue hides any drops of errant ink. Brushing her long hair out is a process, one that is completed in silence even when a stubborn knot tugs at the brush.

“Will you play your yamatogoto this morning after your meal, my lady?” Unagiya asks as Rukia applies a little powder to her face and draws on the high eyebrows that are a mark of beauty in Heian-kyō.

Ichigo always asked her to play. That wound is so fresh it is a sharp pain in her chest, and Rukia’s hand comes up to reach for it before she can stop herself. “No,” she says, when she has gotten herself under control. “I will paint today, instead.”

Unagiya nods and bows her way from the room, carrying away the dirtied water. She returns with a meal Rukia barely touches, and when that has been cleared away – another disapproving look accompanying the action – she permits herself to be led into the shinden proper, hidden from view by the colorful silk hangings of several kichō that have been set up for her. There is a table in place already, as well as a zabuton to cushion her from the cold floor. Rukia sets out her inks and brushes. The paper she selects is small; she has nothing specific in mind, and it would not do to waste a larger, more expensive sheet.

She paints from memory an indifferent image of the Shinsensen gardens, switching between brushes and ink colors as the image spills onto the paper beneath her. It is slow and absorbing work, at least: with her left hand she must carefully hold the sleeves of her kouchiki and kosode out of the way to avoid dragging it in the paint, as with her right she uses the thinnest possible strokes to recreate the garden.

It is good enough as a warm-up, and Rukia sets it aside to dry. She selects a second sheet, larger this time, and with a careful brush finds herself painting a very different scene: that first moment in the courtyard, Ichigo’s hunting coat in its brocade splendor and his hair, though tucked under the hat he was wearing at the time, sunset-bright. The scenery spills from her brush: the buildings that surround the courtyard, the green bushes that bring more color to the piece. But he is the centerpiece of it, an expression of tenderness on his face that only happened later, by lanternlight.

The business of the day goes on around her, beyond the thin walls of fabric, as she paints. Her brother approves a farming project on lands south of Heian-kyō; a member of the Fujiwara clan comes to consult with him about a critical shortage of a particular type of aromatic wood, used in perfume and incense, which only the Kuchiki clan can get. These matters are dealt with in low, emotionless voices that she recognizes as her brother and his assistant.

The name _Shiba_ comes up, just once, and Rukia freezes in place as she eavesdrops shamelessly. But she hears only that the clan’s new relationship with the Kuchiki clan will provide access to a particular source of cloves, an ingredient needed for perfumes. Her breath leaves her in a low, disappointed sigh.

She finishes the second painting by midday and sets it aside to dry; a maid brings soup, and though the thought of eating once more turns her stomach, Rukia manages a few sips.

In the afternoon she turns her attention to perfume, moving behind kichō carried by her attendants to a quiet building on the estate that holds the supplies she needs. Her favorite scent is running low, and her brother must need a new batch of the kneaded, perfumed incense he prefers.

“Please bring me clean jars from the kitchen. The head cook will know which ones to give you,” she instructs Unagiya when they have reached their destination. Then she hands over the two paintings she has completed. “And please burn these. They are inadequate.”

She does not see the attendant glance down at the painting of Ichigo and take a slow breath. There is a soft murmur from beyond the fabric when she steps away, but Rukia can’t quite make it out. It passes from her mind forgotten as she gathers honey, dried plum flesh from the previous season, a mortar and pestle, and the selection of ingredients she’ll need for each of the neri-koh batches she will make.

Other than Byakuya, only _she_ knows the recipe for the unique blend that he uses. Hisana knew it; her sister used to make the blend for her husband, until she grew too weak. Rukia knows that Byakuya keeps the last of the incense his late wife made as a precious memento, using it only on the most important occasions.

Rukia’s efforts generally produce an incense that is close but not _quite_ as good as her sister’s. She sits at a low table, ingredients assembled around her, and drapes an apron over her lap. Carefully, she adds shavings of aromatic wood, charcoal, dried cherry blossom flowers, and musk to the mortar, grinding them until they are powder. She pours in dark honey and adds the dried plum to the mixture before she grinds and pounds all of it together, until her shoulder is sore and the dark mixture in the stone bowl is a firm paste. She gets her hands dirty, then, rolling the paste into tiny, slightly sticky balls that she arranges on a wooden board to cure.

Her own perfume is next, after she cleanses her hands. It’s a more delicate blend that she heats near her robes to keep them smelling appealing. Instead of cherry blossoms she adds an oily yellow paste created from iris roots and a more delicate wood than what she used for Byakuya. She adds the slightest amount of borneol camphor and charcoal, the former of which adds a sharpness to the richer scent of the iris root. When it is pounded together with the honey and dried plum Rukia creates another board full of little incense balls. It’s quiet and comforting work, even more so than painting; turning the ingredients to powder allows her to take out her frustrations, and here she is alone except for the jars of ingredients lining the walls.

Unagiya returns as Rukia finishes her work, and together they add the incense into the two clean jars that the maid has brought. They will be stored for a year before the jars are opened once more.

Dinner is a silent, solitary affair: a maid brings her meal and Unagiya lingers nearby, her attention on a piece of embroidery, as Rukia picks at the meal indifferently until everything is ice cold.

“Tomorrow,” Unagiya says suddenly, “You will eat all of your meals, Lady Shiba.”

Rukia blinks in surprise at the sound of her voice and looks up, chopsticks still in hand. “Excuse me?” she asks, more startled than angry that a servant is giving her an order.

Her attendant finishes a stitch in her project before she speaks again. “You have skipped or picked at your last four meals, and I won’t allow you to make yourself sick.”

“ _Allow_ ,” Rukia repeats flatly.

Another stitch. “Yes. If you do not like what the cook makes for you, I will have them make something else, but you _will_ eat.” The look Unagiya gives her is so stern that Rukia looks away and murmurs a faint assent.

* * *

Life goes on in this way for the next two months. Rukia remains in her family home during that time as if nothing has changed, her husband absent and still unknown to her. She lives almost like a woman in mourning, for after the embarrassment of her supposed wedding day she cannot bear to hold gatherings even with her closest friends. Instead, she paints, she practices with her tachi when she is certain no one is looking, and occasionally she plays the yamatogoto, though she learns new songs and does not play any of the ones Ichigo liked.

It hurts too much to remind herself of him, and her sleeves grow embarrassingly damp whenever she does. For there were other visits, after the first few, times when she played her zither just for him and other letters that pledged his admiration. But then there was the announcement of her imminent marriage and – nothing.

[](return1)Rukia huffs under her breath and murmurs quietly one of the newer poems that she has learned, in time with her plucking: “Well, now, well, now! My yearning heart will find consolation.” She blinks away a hint of dampness and continues softly, “In the next world – that’s all I can think!”1 Her fingertips pluck at the strings again, a sharp melody that does nothing for her stupidly yearning heart. A discreet inquiry has revealed that Ichigo has been gone from Heian-kyō since the night before her wedding; she wonders if he left because of it. She can’t even send him a message, not knowing where he is staying.

“My lady,” a voice calls, and she looks up. Unagiya stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Enter,” she says quietly. The maid looks a touch nervous, and it’s no wonder – behind her is one of the elders’ representatives, Ochi Misato.

The woman very properly steps forward, itsutsuginu arranged beautifully, and bows. “My lady. Your lord husband has summoned you to his home at last. You are to leave us tomorrow morning,” she says firmly. “Your lord brother has arranged for a palanquin to take you to your new home.”

Rukia blinks and sets the instrument aside. “That is unusual,” she says quietly. All of the married women she knows stay in their family homes and their husbands either live there or visit them. _She_ is the one expected to provide her husband with a home.

“Nevertheless, it is the clan elders’ decision that you will obey his summons,” Ochi says. She rakes her gaze over Rukia’s room. “Unagiya will assist you in packing.” With that, she turns on her heel and leaves.

Rukia takes a deep breath once she is gone, and looks up at the maid. “Well,” she says, and pretends a calm she does not feel, “We will start packing, then.”

“Yes, my lady,” Unagiya says with a bow, and helps Rukia rise from her position on the wooden floor. “I will have a chest brought.”

Rukia nods calmly and turns in place as the dark-haired woman leaves once more. “Arrogant of this husband I’ve never seen to _summon_ me,” she mutters, but makes her away across the room to the shelves where her belongings are stored. There is clothing of course, and she’ll have Unagiya pack that, but Rukia carefully gathers her brushes and inks, the scrolls that contain her most precious paintings, and the little wooden box that contains the jewelry given to her by her sister. Hisana has been gone for years but Rukia keeps the enameled combs and delicate necklaces as her heirlooms.

There is the matter of the tachi. Rukia pulls the blade, sheathed in white, from the cabinet at her feet and wraps it carefully in one of her robes. Hopefully her husband won’t notice or care that she has it. Perhaps he will accept the explanation that it was a gift.

When the maid returns it’s with two other servants, each carrying one side of a traveling chest. Rukia turns her face away, for they are both men, until they bow and leave. Then she and the maid get to work. Fortunately, Rukia has very little; by the time the maid has carefully folded her other robes and garments, there is still plenty of room for her personal things, including the tachi. She carefully detunes the stringed instrument and wraps it in layers of silk before placing it in the chest.

“You will be woken in the morning,” Unagiya says when they are nearly done. “Lady Ochi tells me that the trip to your husband’s home will not take so very long.”

Rukia nods solemnly. “There is a jar in the stillroom with my mark on it,” she says. “Please wrap it carefully so that I may take it with me.” When the maid has helped her out of her many layers so they may be packed away as well, Rukia sleeps on her futon in just her kosode. Her blankets block out the muffled sounds of her tears, for her husband’s summons has ripped open a barely-closed wound.

The maid is right: she wakes Rukia in the morning, tutting over the puffiness of her eyes but offering a cold cloth silently. Once Rukia has washed up, Unagiya helps her into a pale hitoe and then five additional layered robes, forming the paling scarlet pattern. An uchikatsugi, the brim as wide as her shoulders, is placed upon her head, and Rukia sits quietly as the veil is settled around her. As a mark of her station, the veil reaches nearly to her knees and is made of fine silk. It casts the world around her in a misty white hue.

Though it isn’t so very early, only her lord brother has awakened to bid her farewell; he looks at her carefully as she enters the courtyard and bows to him as gracefully as she can manage. “Rukia,” he says solemnly, and she bows again. “I wish you a safe journey to your new home.” He does not touch her, but into her hands he places a delicate silver comb, enameled with sakura blossoms. “This was my mother’s, and I hope it will bring her blessing to you.”

She stares at him in silence for a long moment; for a decade she has been the _adopted_ sister, the family member who was never quite enough. “You honor me,” she whispers, and bows to him a third time. Her veil sways in a westerly breeze.

“Be well, sister,” Byakuya says quietly. He waits until her maid has helped her into the palanquin, managing layers of silk and the veil along with it, to turn and go back inside. She thinks she hears, just as she steps away, _“Be happy.”_

The palanquin, supported by four strong men in white hachuko sugata, is luxuriously appointed. A tufted, sunshine yellow linen cushion lines the wooden floor to provide Rukia with comfort on her journey, and brocade silk curtains the color of sakura blossoms hide much of the world from view. She wonders why she needed the veil and hat, but Unagiya leaves the curtains open – or perhaps they don’t close all the way. As Rukia settles herself the conveyance lurches and lifts into the air.

There is little to do; her belongings are packed away in the chest at her feet and scrambling to dig out her embroidery, her painting supplies, or her yamatogoto wouldn’t be dignified. And painting in a moving palanquin would be messy anyway. So Rukia contents herself with looking through the small opening in the curtains at the world around her. She so rarely gets to see Heian-kyō, after all, cooped up in her brother’s estate as she usually is.

There are many other estates surrounding her brother’s, in the southern Left Capital of Heian-kyō. She doesn’t even know where her husband’s estate is; the Shiba estate is in the northernmost part of the Left Capital, but the message was clear: she is going to her _husband’s_ home, not her husband’s _family’s_ home. She wonders if the building is part of whatever marriage agreement was made with her brother; Ise Nanao received a new home in the capital when she married, after all. But she is her husband’s first and principal wife, and Rukia – Rukia doesn’t know which wife she is. So many men of the aristocracy have two or even three wives, and that does not count their lovers. She doesn’t think that her brother would relegate her to the position of third wife.

Well, probably not.

She looks down at the comb in her hand, fingertips brushing over the enamel. It is a precious gift and a mark of honor that Byakuya would give her a family heirloom as a parting gift. Though it is not as though she will never see him again: Heian-kyō is not so large. Even on foot, she could cross the full length of it in only a few hours, assuming she didn’t break her neck tripping on her too-long robes.

The palanquin turns and Rukia hears the east market before she sees it, an array of stalls with merchants selling their wares and customers haggling over prices. But her bearers have no intention of going _through_ the market: they turn again and carry her north. There are murmurs outside of her conveyance and Rukia dares to look; men point at her palanquin and whisper as she passes them.

They pass a garden, so beautiful it can only be Shinsensen, the garden nearest the palace, and Rukia’s breath leaves her in a low, tense exhale. But they turn once more, and she can’t help but slump, unladylike, against the cushion with relief. Her new home is not the palace, not that place of intrigue and viper’s nests, of concubines angling for favors and men whom she cannot threaten with her sword. It’s apparent, though, that her new home is _close_ to the palace. There is a small enclave for the aristocracy close to the palace, she remembers, in the Right Capital.

Finally, a truly interminable time later, the palanquin lowers and settles. Two attendants pull back the curtains and help Rukia to rise from the palanquin so that she can step foot into the courtyard of her husband’s estate, her new home.

It’s larger and quieter than she expects, given how close it is to the royal estate, and Rukia stands silent for a moment to take it in. The courtyard she stands in stretches out around her, impeccably manicured but very _new_ looking, something she wonders at briefly. Likewise, the buildings around her look brand new and freshly painted. The shinden is a large structure, raised on pillars and with gleaming steps that she will have to climb and a steep, cypress-shingled roof. Surrounding the shinden are numerous smaller buildings connected by a series of bridges; through one of the delicate arches, she can see a garden.

“Kitanokata, allow us to escort you inside,” one of the women says, and upon hearing that title Rukia spares a thought that at least she knows where she stands now: whatever Shiba she has been married to, for now at least she is the first and only wife.

 _That should not be possible,_ she thinks. Shiba Kaien has a wife, the incomparable Shiba Miyako, and so does Shiba Ganju. The only other child of the line is a daughter. The offshoot branches don’t make sense either. Rukia knows the only son of the Mizuiro line and he has three wives, all older than him. The Asano boy is married too and thank all the kami for that; Asano Keigo is rumored to be an odd one. There must be a branch she does not know.

“Thank you,” she murmurs, and allows herself to be led up the steps and into her new home. The attendant behind her carefully holds up her robes so that she does not trip. She is not wrong about the _newness_ of her new home, Rukia realizes when she is standing inside. Everything looks brand new and as if it has not been lived in at all. The wood smells freshly cut and there is a faint but lingering odor of new paint.

Behind her, two more servants are carrying her chest toward a pair of sliding doors toward the back of the shinden. “Please, allow us to serve you tea, my lady,” one of the maids says, and Rukia permits them to guide her behind a kichō and to remove her hat and veil. Without the misty barrier she can see more of the details of her new home: ornate carvings in the ceiling, delicate painted silk covering the walls.

They seat her on a cushion before a low table and after a time a servant sets down a delicate, polished red kyusu and a single cup. She bows to Rukia before leaving the space. Rukia lets out a soft sigh and after a moment, uses the angled, round handle to lift the tea pot and fill her cup. The tea is fragrant and hot, but her fingers are cold even as she clasps the little cup in both hands.

Her new home is _quiet_ – much quieter than the Kuchiki estate. The only people she has seen so far are servants, in fact. She wonders whether other family members live on the estate or if it will just be _her_ , rattling around in isolation unless he sees fit to visit her. Rukia shivers minutely in her clothing and glances back towards the doors at the back of the shinden. They look heavier than ordinary shoji doors and she wonders why.

No sooner is her tea gone than Unagiya Ikumi is standing before her, bowing shallowly. The kosode and apron she wears both look clean and of good quality; the kosode is pale blue and the apron is darker and patterned. Rukia blinks in confusion. “Unagiya? I thought you were employed by the Kuchiki clan,” she says after a moment.

“Technically, I was…borrowed from the Shiba clan,” she says, with a little smirk. “I understand that they wanted to ensure your comfort even before this home was complete.”

 _Interesting._ Rukia glances down at the empty cup still set before her. It’s true that Unagiya has been much more outwardly solicitous than the rest of the Kuchiki servants and has taken pains to ensure her comfort in a way that no one else ever has. It’s a sweet thought that her husband’s clan wanted her to be _comfortable_ , even though her husband is still nowhere to be found. “I see,” she says after a long silence.

“I will help unpack your things,” Unagiya offers.

“Thank you,” Rukia murmurs, and rises from her cushion as the attendant watches. She follows the taller woman into the room that she assumes must be _hers_ , and takes a slow breath. The space is _plain_ , without a single piece of furniture or cushion save for a wardrobe and some shelves along one wall.

“Your husband has advised that you are to be permitted to select your own furniture, my lady,” Unagiya says as Rukia looks around, “and decorate this room to your liking.”

She blinks at the attendant, who is already opening the chest that contains everything she owns in the world. “I see,” Rukia says quietly. She hurries over to the chest and, before the other woman can touch anything, plucks her wrapped yamatogoto from the pile. The silk wrapped around it slips and the attendant smiles.

“There is a special spot for your zither,” she offers.

And indeed, further along the wall are three shelves: one just the right size for her instrument, and the other two –

She blinks. “These are for swords.” Rukia gestures at the two shelves, one above the other, with angled cut-outs to allow a sword to be displayed on each shelf. Her heart gives a little twist.

“The builders were given instructions to construct a place of honor for your tachi. Your husband’s blade will rest below yours.”

 _Curious_ , Rukia thinks, but she carefully unwraps her yamatogoto and places it on the shelf, humming thoughtfully at the way the wood has been angled to put the instrument on proper display. She does the same for her tachi, and quietly ponders the fact that her husband has arranged for the tools of two of her pastimes to be on display. Whomever this son of the Shiba clan is, he has heard of and may be willing to tolerate her hobbies. It’s…warming, that thought, but she is still annoyed that he has yet to reveal himself or even leave a letter for her.

The rest of the unpacking is quick, and Rukia shields her face with her sleeves as a pair of male servants return to take the empty chest away. “Allow me to show you around the estate, Kitanokata,” Unagiya offers.

“Thank you,” Rukia murmurs, and with a fan in hand she allows herself to be led back into the open space of the shinden and from there, into the other rooms and out-buildings that form the estate. Her new husband has spared little in the way of expense, though other than the kitchen the spaces are empty, much like her bedroom.

There is a small, covered building with plain, rough-hewn walls, and Unagiya says carefully, “I am told that this will be an area for sword practice when it is finished later this month. It is meant to provide privacy from the rest of the estate.”

Rukia blinks, absorbing that statement, and follows the attendant through the other buildings and the courtyard, which is freshly planted, until they return to the shinden. There is a pile of papers waiting for her on the same table at which she took tea, and she raises a brow in inquiry.

“A copy of the Shiba inventory,” Unagiya explains. “You may choose anything from the inventory to furnish the estate and it will be brought to you. If there is something you wish to have made or purchased, it will be arranged.”

She blinks again. “Has…my husband made any stipulations or requests?” she asks.

“Only that he does not care for pink or orange.” There is a little smirk playing on her lips again. “He also asks, respectfully, that you remember that he is taller than you.”

For a moment – only a moment – Rukia considers decorating everything in pink and orange just to indicate her irritation at his absence and his high-handedness in summoning her here to an empty home. But…she doesn’t like those colors either and being openly hostile towards this man seems like a poor choice. And the requests are so _mild_. She settles back upon the cushion and pulls the sheaf of papers closer. It is, it seems, up to her to furnish her new home.

In an hour she has made several choices, copying them in an even hand on a separate sheet provided to her by Unagiya. “I will make additional choices,” Rukia explains as she holds out her list. “However, as there appears to be nothing upon which I can sleep at the moment, these are to be brought to the estate as soon as possible.”

Her attendant receives the paper with a low bow and murmurs her assent before she hurries off to make arrangements.

In less than two hours, a cart returns with half of what she has requested, along with a promise that the other half will be sent in the morning. Rukia oversees the arrangement of a platform for her bedding – long enough to accommodate a man much taller than her – and heavy curtains, as well as the portable kichō that will grant her privacy in the day. A table for her painting practice is moved into her bedroom as well, along with a low, cushioned chair with an elegantly-designed back.

That night Unagiya helps Rukia to disrobe and she crawls into the freshly laid-out bedding. Her husband has not made a single appearance, and though she waits nervously beneath the covers and does not fall asleep until late into the night, he does not come to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1From the [Shūishū, book XV: 941](http://www.wakapoetry.net/sis-xv-941/). Written by Ōnakatomi no Yoshinobu[return to text]
> 
> The reference to "damp sleeves" both here and in the previous chapter is a common phrase in the waka poetry of the Heian period. It references crying, and the damp sleeves that would result when someone wiped away their tears.
> 
> The perfumed incense balls Rukia creates here are called neri-koh, and were common in the Heian period. Perfume making was an important skill at the time, and members of the aristocracy had their own unique scents, the recipes for which were closely guarded secrets.


End file.
